


regrets make us age like reeds on the lakeshore (unbecoming and hollow)

by bebitched



Category: Twilight
Genre: Drabble, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-06
Updated: 2008-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bebitched/pseuds/bebitched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Tanya paces back and forth like a jungle cat sizing up its prey; she’d always been feral, always calculating, pinching possibilities between her nimble fingers.</em></p><p>Rosalie and Tanya observe the wedding reception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	regrets make us age like reeds on the lakeshore (unbecoming and hollow)

 

“I suppose she’s pretty.”

 

The night air still clings to the sky, the moon peeling in frozen layers as the clouds choke in around it. Rosalie traces a finger nail along the table cloth. _Dutch crème_. Alice always had a way with details.

 

Tanya paces back and forth like a jungle cat sizing up its prey; she’d always been feral, always calculating, pinching possibilities between her nimble fingers. There’s a reason they got along so well.

 

“Supposedly.”

 

She pauses, gold eyes zero in and there’s no hiding from the clang of metal.

 

“Not still jealous, are you Rosie?” Teasing hardens to seriousness; there are reputations to be up held. “Hurricanes wait for no man.”

 

Rosalie cuts her jaw in the direction of blushing brides and husbands that should have stayed brooding statues. A wicked smile; no one said only two could play at this game.

 

“Only one of us is alone, last time I checked.”

 

She’s straddling her lap before Rosalie can breathe (not that she would want to) the underside of Tanya’s thighs sliding dangerously against the tops of hers, silk meeting silk in a tragic case of same forces repelling as the fabrics slip away from each other. There’s a reason they’re squared away from the gaggle of wedding guests (they melt into mourners in her head).

 

“Don’t speak too soon.”

 

The hem of her dress recedes from the ghost of Rosalie’s fingers as they dance up her skin, drawn to her waist by way of the shortest possible route.

 

“Don’t worry,” Rosalie breathes against the slope of her neck (the skin there reeks of irony and she drinks it in gladly), “Humans are like rice paper; they bend so easily. Shouldn’t be too long before she folds.”

 

Tanya doesn’t argue and no one comes looking for them in the shadows.

 


End file.
